


Flora's Secret

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Creature Dean Winchester, Dean/Cas Reverse Bang, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Flowers, Gardens & Gardening, Gen, M/M, Transformation, Winged Dean Winchester, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 08:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19103713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Trapped—seemingly—in the confines of his own mind, Dean enlists Rowena to help him pull Castiel back into reality—but, finds himself in a place foreign yet beautiful, with a set of wings to match.





	Flora's Secret

“And you’re sure this is gonna work?” Dean asks Rowena, his hands in his lap while Rowena dips her red-tipped nails into holy oil. “Or did you just feel like getting frisky?”

“Perhaps another time, if you try your luck,” she says with mirth. Once again, she trails her fingers down his spine, painting sigils he can’t see into his skin. “But the more skin I can get to, the better. You should be lucky this doesn’t require full nudity.”

Before them in a bed of dandelions, Castiel lies prone, arms folded across his stomach, eyes closed, wind tussling his hair. Dean watches him, aching to reach out and touch, to ease life into him once again. Alive as he may be, Castiel still won’t wake up, and hasn't in the last five hours, not since he touched that stupid statue in the storage room that knocked him flat on his ass. Sam is more than half a country away, investigating a haunted bed-and-breakfast in Maine, and Dean…

Dean is here, with a perpetually sleeping angel and one of the most powerful witches to walk the earth. Said witch is preparing to jettison him into Castiel’s dream—if angels even dream anyway—in an attempt to drag him back out again. “I can sense your distress,” Rowena hums, dancing her fingernails up Dean’s spine. “But you needn’t worry. I’ve done this several times before.”

“What, just casually dream-walking with angels?” Dean scoffs and fights off the urge to cross his arms. _Can’t smear the holy oil_ , he remembers; the last thing he needs is to get stuck in some alternate reality, or worse. “What’re we talking, small fries, the big wigs, what?”

“Oh, honey.” Rowena pats his shoulder before standing, the lace patterning the bottom of her black dress swaying as she moves. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Any other time, and Dean might laugh; now, he just shakes his head and scoots closer to Castiel, hands on his knees where he kneels. Gingerly, Rowena sinks down as well, taking one of Dean’s hands in hers; the other, she places atop Castiel’s head, where a sigil sits, transparent but still tacky under his palm. “All you have to do is wake him up,” Rowena assures, lacing their fingers together, her skin surprisingly warm. “The moment he wakes up, you should be able to return. Should you not,” she says with a shrug, much to Dean’s horror, “well, I’ll figure out that one.”

The minute Rowena opens her mouth to chant the spell, Dean blacks out—and wakes what feels like minutes later, to the same sun beating down on his face. The wind gusts faintly, tickling the hairs along his arms; around him, flowers sway in the breeze, smelling faintly of lavender and roses and tulips, all of it melding into the scent of spring. Somewhere close, a robin calls for its mate, and a squirrel skitters up a tree, jumping through the branches.

It’s perfectly serene, picturesque. If only his back would stop fluttering.

Fluttering— _Fluttering_. “Damn.” In haste, Dean sits up and grabs his bicep, straining to look over his shoulder to see—wings. Not regular wings, but pastel pink, practically translucent butterfly wings, each with apparently a mind of their own. Anxiously, they flap, and Dean resists the impulse to grab them just to make them stop. “Don’t touch them,” Mrs. Chambers told him in third grade, when a Swallowtail landed on his finger during recess. “Their scales are very brittle, and losing even a few could affect how they absorb heat.”

“Would it die?” he’d asked, holding the yellow-and-black insect up to his teacher. To this day, he remembers her smile, and how it fell when she told him, yes.

So he has wings—thin, scaly wings that probably couldn’t lift him even if he tried, but wings. And apparently, Rowena transported him to a garden of sorts, complete with vines climbing up intricate lattices and over immaculately manicured hedges, with lemon and orange trees strategically placed in corners, and a fountain amongst it all, water pouring from a cherub’s bucket and cascading below.

Wherever he is, it’s… astounding. “I didn’t think you’d be here,” Castiel says, abrupt enough to startle Dean’s wings into flapping again. They smack Castiel in the face each time. Miraculously, no scales fly off, and Castiel just stares at him in wonder, despite Dean’s abject horror. Kneeling, Castiel reaches out to stroke over the tip ridge of his forewing, his caress soothing, easing Dean’s jitters. “I was wondering if anyone would visit.”

“Cas,” Dean stammers. He turns only once Castiel lets him go, now fully facing him and his—wings, apparently. Here, Castiel’s wings pour through the rain shield of his coat, blue and pink and silver all at once. Holographic, if Dean had to put a word to it. His feathers catch the sunlight, casting off a multitude of colors all at once, dyeing the tulips in rainbow. “Cas, you’re dreaming,” he continues, voice growing more unsure. It feels like a dream, or some strange nightmare.

All Castiel does is blink at him, his wings unfolding and arching into the sky, obscuring the shrubbery; Dean would cower, if they weren’t so beautiful. “This isn’t a dream, per se,” Castiel says. “I know where I am. I remember how we met. I know how I got here.”

“You touched that statue,” Dean says, mimicking the height of said piece. “A St. Christopher about this high?”

“Exactly.” With little effort, Castiel stands and offers Dean a hand, the wind rustling through his wings. “It’s been charmed, to a degree. Whoever cast the spell meant it to send the holder into a deep sleep, but apparently missed several key ingredients.”

Dean snorts, scrubbing his face. Castiel isn’t permanently sleeping then. He’s just… napping. “So you’ve just been chilling out here?” he asks, to Castiel’s nod. Reaching up, he takes Castiel’s hand and allows himself to be tugged to his feet, his wings beating along the way. “Is this what angels dream of?”

“Not all of them.” Castiel keeps their hands joined, fingers dovetailed together until their palms press flush. “Just me. I tended to the gardens in the fourth heaven for a short period, and whenever I sleep, I always come back here.”

“It’s nice.” Dean glances over each shoulder. Around his feet, wildflowers bloom before his eyes, reaching up to his knees. “They do that in heaven?”

“It’s your soul.” Castiel nods, sure of himself. “They’re feeding off your energy. Imagine what you could do if this were real.”

“I couldn’t wear a shirt, for one,” Dean laughs. Castiel just beams at him, holding his hand tighter. “Any reason for these?” He thumbs to his wings, which flutter in response.

To that, Castiel shrugs. “You’ve always reminded me of a forest. Maybe this is just how you’ve manifested in my mind.”

In his mind—of course, he’s still inside Castiel’s head. “You got any intentions of leaving any time soon? ‘Cause Rowena’s out there waiting to see if I croak, and—”

“Let me give you the tour first.” Castiel’s smile practically glows, his warmth a beacon in this paradise. “How long have I been asleep?”

“A few hours,” Dean says, aiming for nonchalant. “Five, probably, but who’s counting?”

Castiel chuckles, squeezing Dean’s hand. “That is a habit of yours. I was asking because”—he stops at the fountain’s edge, looking up at the cherub—“I’ve been here days, Dean. At least a week, but that was before I stopped paying attention. What was seconds to you was hours to me, and I’m… ready to leave. But I want to show you this, just so you can see what Heaven was, long before the war, and…” He sighs, tugs Dean closer. “Come with me.”

With little coaxing, Dean follows Castiel through the depths of the garden, Castiel’s hand in his. Eerily similar to a maze, they wind through the spacious corridors and wander into interior chambers, each with different fixtures; some have fountains, others ponds with koi swimming carelessly in the clear waters. Flowers dot the hedges and the stone walls, blooming even without sunlight, in some places.

Where Castiel has spent most of his time, apparently, is toward the center of the labyrinth, pointedly marked by a large weeping willow in the far corner. Ferns line the base and surround the pond, full of water lilies. A crane wades through the water, occasionally cleaning underneath a wing. Branchlets sway in the wind, their individual leaves touching the ground, rippling the pond.

“This is my nest,” Castiel says, prideful.

Barefooted, he steps into the grass, the blades slipping between his toes; Dean watches Castiel, watches flowers spring up from around his feet, watches the hydrangeas change color as he touches their petals. Everything about it seems so serene, entrancing, and at once, Dean understands why Castiel doesn’t want to leave. If it were him, Dean wouldn’t want to go either.

Lifting the branchlets, Castiel disappears into the tree; Dean slips off his shoes and follows him, passing into the shade. Castiel greets him from a bed of creeping phlox, vibrant and purple underneath where he lies. Faintly, sunlight shines through the willow’s leaves, casting rainbows off of Castiel’s wings. Dean desperately wants to touch him, and the longer he stays here, the less he wants to rejoin the land of the living.

“You’re beautiful,” Castiel says with a smile. He extends his hand, beckoning Dean closer; Dean can’t help but obey, sinking to straddle Castiel’s waist, so close yet not enough. Nimble fingers trace the skin between Dean’s wings, all four flitting in excitement. “You should see yourself like this.”

“Should see yourself,” Dean joshes in return. Despite his want, he settles for touching Castiel’s coat, hooking his thumbs in the loops atop his shoulders. “We gotta go, Cas,” he says, solemn, nuzzling into Castiel’s neck. He smells of lilac and lavender, and Dean never wants to let him go. “You’ll die if we don’t.”

Ever so softly, Castiel coaxes him into a kiss, lips plush against his own and even more chaste. “You can understand why I don’t want to leave,” he whispers, pressing kisses wherever he can. Namely to Dean’s jaw, his cheek, the tip of his chin. “I’ve never felt more at peace than I do when I’m here. I come here when I sleep, and I always lament waking up. Dreams are so… intermittent, fraught with terror, but when I’m here…”

“Buddy, if this is your way of saying you want some sun, there’s other ways to tell me,” Dean huffs. Still, he leans further into Castiel, shivering when Castiel strokes his wings, gentle in the way only an angel can be. “How are you not hurting them?”

“They’re a manifestation of your soul,” Castiel explains, mouthing a trail up Dean’s neck. “Nothing you see here is real.”

“Your wings are real, though.” For emphasis, Dean touches them, the current flowing through his fingers near-enough for him to yank his hand away; fake or not, he might as well have licked a battery. “That real enough?”

“Dean.” Kneejerk, Castiel pulls his wing away, the suddenness disturbing the willow’s canopy. Dean urges him back with insistence, solely petting over the muscled arch, easing him into it. Like a disgruntled cat, he thinks—a large, disgruntled cat with wings longer than a tanker truck. “Dean, you shouldn’t…”

“Only time I’m gonna get a chance.” Castiel will never be able to manifest his wings back in reality, Dean assumes. Here, he fights off the ticking clock and takes his time, stroking through Castiel’s wings between kisses, just the barest hint of tongue slipping through. Eventually, Castiel flattens himself, idly caressing Dean’s bare skin while Dean laves attention to his throat, sucking marks that fade seconds after. “We could be doing this out there, y’know.”

“We could,” Castiel hums, eyes closed. “I’m enjoying it here, though. You’re so warm.”

“Swear, sometimes you’re a cat,” Dean snorts. Teasingly, Castiel traces up Dean’s spine, and Dean lets his wings move on their own, casting off silvered dust when Castiel touches him just right. “They—supposed to do that?”

Castiel presses a kiss to Dean’s collar, grinning. “Only when you’re enjoying yourself. I wouldn’t mind if you kept these.” He stops to pet both of Dean’s hindwings, fingertips dancing atop scales. “They’re incredibly reactive.”

“’Cause you keep touching ‘em,” Dean chuckles. “Feel like Tinker Bell, only… bigger.”

“That you are.” He tilts his hips up just the lightest, his smirk somehow flushing Dean even more than his sudden interest in getting lucky. “Very broad—”

“Cas.” Hand to Castiel’s tie, Dean shoves him down into the flowers, only to see Castiel’s feathers darken from silver to black. More fitting, but—“Did I do that?”

At that, Castiel just turns his head, his initial anger smoothing over. “I’m sorry. I know I… I know, Dean. But it’s just so nice here—”

“And it’s nice out there, too.” Out there, Castiel is alive and breathing. Out there are Sam and Jack and Mary, and Rowena too, apparently. “We got a life out there, Cas. I got a family, and you’re part of that. Please just… come with me. You’re starting to freak me out here.”

For a while, Castiel doesn’t look at him. His wings flicker, though, fading out of view and leaving behind withering flowers. Overhead, clouds block out the sun, and gradually, Castiel’s paradise dies, all before his eyes. “It’s not that I don’t like living here, in the bunker,” he begins, just as the scenery turns black, “but I’d prefer to spend time in the daylight every once in a while. I don’t see how you do it, confining yourself for hours on end.”

Dean’s wings fade last, disintegrating into dust around their knees. _Fun while it lasted_. “I don’t like it either,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. Castiel sits up, now looking at him fully. “Never pictured living in a bunker for the rest of my life, either. But we’re not paying rent, and I got everyone under one roof for the first time in my life. I just… I don’t wanna get rid of that.”

“And I’m not asking you to.” With a sigh, Castiel stands and helps Dean to his feet. “But I’d like it to be a possibility, someday. Somewhere with… land. Preferably with windows.”

He can’t help but squeeze Castiel’s shoulder. “Who knew you were that easy to please,” Dean teases, jostling him a bit. “Minute I hit the jackpot, we’re packing up and moving into the first house we can find. But until then, we gotta stick together, you hear me?”

“I hear you,” Castiel says. Just barely, he smiles, and Dean will take it for what it’s worth. “Until then, I’d like a garden, or at least use of the conservatory.”

The conservatory—“That thing?” Laughing, Dean just drags Castiel in for a hug. “Man, if you can figure out how to revive everything in there, it’s yours.”

Castiel nods, head resting atop Dean’s shoulder. “I’m glad,” he says, and—

Daylight.

Dean sucks in a breath, Rowena’s hand slipping from his; Castiel bolts upright, patting his chest, and only belatedly does he look at Rowena, the expression on her face priceless. “Fancy you two showing up again,” she says, brushing her hands off on her dress. “You kept me waiting for five minutes. Where were you?”

“I apparently proved hard to find,” Castiel lies, which—good. They can keep this conversation to themselves, then, at least until Sam starts wondering why Castiel keeps bringing home plants from Home Depot. “Thank you for your assistance, Rowena.”

Rowena just waves them off and stands, gathering up the urn of holy oil at her feet. “The next time either of you need help, please hesitate to call, or at least give me some warning? I was in the middle of a nice—”

“We’ll try,” Dean cuts her off, offering a smile regardless. “Thanks.”

Her huff shouldn’t be as amusing as it is, but Dean laughs anyway. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” she says before departing, traipsing in the back door and slamming it in her wake.

In her absence, Dean looks at the sun through the shadow of the trees, a hand over his eyes. “Well,” he sighs, glancing over to Castiel and the flush in his cheeks. “That was something.”

Briefly, Castiel looks down at his shoes before turning to Dean, disappointment in his eyes. Dean’s gut twists unpleasantly at the sight, and he hopes he can fix that too. “Can we just… sit here in silence, for a while?” Castiel asks, unexpectedly sheepish.

Something in Dean breaks, or at least softens. “Sure, yeah,” he agrees. Taking Castiel’s hand in his, he lies back in the grass. Castiel joins him shortly after, their shoulders brushing when he settles, fingers intertwining amongst the flowers. “Kinda miss the wings,” Dean says, and squeezes Castiel’s hand. “Think you could show them to me sometime?”

Castiel shushes him, not at all admonishing. A short while later, he answers, “I could, but I’m afraid you wouldn’t be able to take your hands off them. I saw how you looked at them.”

“’Cause they’re cool,” Dean snorts. He rubs Castiel’s shoulder with his own, settling further into the grass. He swears, if a bug crawls in his hair… “Think I saw some loungers in the basement the other day.”

“The entire building is a basement,” Castiel chuckles. “Be more specific.”

If his eyes were open, Dean would roll them. Though, like this, Castiel can’t see him try. “The pool room. Y’know, we could bring ‘em out here, get a tan. Starting to look a bit pale over there.”

“I’d enjoy that,” Castiel hums, wiggling. “Sam and Jack shouldn’t be back until Friday, we could—”

“Cas,” Dean shushes, intentionally patting Castiel’s hip with their joined hands. “And here I thought you weren’t an exhibitionist.”

Dean opens one eye and watches Castiel smirk, his lips doing all sorts of things to Dean’s libido. “I’m many things,” Castiel says, low, practically a growl when he leans up, free hand bracketing Dean’s chest. “You’re welcome to join me. I know you’re always complaining about tan lines.”

Damn— _Damn_. “Gonna kill me, Cas.”

Castiel just smiles and falls back into the grass. “Let’s hope not.”

**Author's Note:**

> Wahoo! I got to work with [jossujb](https://jossujb.tumblr.com/post/185384512999/this-is-my-artwork-for-deancas-reverse-bang) for the Dean/Cas Reverse Bang this year! I really loved your art, and it was such a pleasure writing for you! I hope everyone enjoys it, because I got to play with worldbuilding and scenery and I just wanna hang out here. Someone give me a lot of land and a garden maze.
> 
> Title is from the Enya song. 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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